Page 83 of Levi

I grin at the little screen. I can picture him too, folded into an airport chair with a stack of paperwork on his knees, one thumb going, sleeves shoved up over tanned forearms. It’s the best minute of my day.

And I’m lying to him with every word I leave out.

He was supposed to be back today. If the sky had behaved, he could’ve come by this afternoon and walked straight into the trucks, the crew, Freddie. Instead, a thunderstorm parked itself between us on the one day the caravan rolled in. First time in my life I’ve been grateful to weather.

But storms move on, and there’s one more thing I have to send. It’s the hardest one, because it has to sound like nothing at all.

Levi: Gimme a call first if you head this way. I need to straighten up the place.

I watch the dots.

Dante: Sure. I’ll text you.

No hitch, no second look. I get away with it. Whatever’s going on in this house, he won’t walk into the middle of it. I tell myself that’s protecting him.

I tried to tell him the truth on the phone. I couldn’t do it. I need to say it to his face, where he can say or do whatever he needs to while I stand there and take it because I deserve it.

I’ll tell him in person. This weekend. Once his paperwork’s done and the buyer’s been through again and he’s got an hour that isn’t spoken for.

I’ll get him somewhere private and say the thing straight and let it fall however it falls. Do it right. Do it like Dante deserves.

I feel almost good about the decision.

Tomorrow’s the production run-through, and the tailgate songs are already cuing up behind my eyes, sliding back into my throat like they never left.

Chapter 30: Dante

I’m at the gate at the Miami airport, watching the board, and the board watches me back — DELAYED, then DELAYED again, while a line of thunderstorms parks itself over the eastern Gulf and refuses to move.

Dante: Delayed again! The storm is parked on the Gulf.

Levi: sky’s black here too. house is fine. Want me to check the humidity?

Dante: Please.

Levi: 61.

Dante: 61 is high.

Levi: Not shutting the door.

Dante: Won’t ask you to.

I know how to work a delay. Four hours on the concourse with Jonathan’s packet open on my knees, texting Levi between pages. We board mid-afternoon, sit on the tarmac another hour, and I land in Panama City Beach with the day spent and nothing to show for it but a stiff neck.

I’d had a plan in mind for this evening. Swing by the house on the way to the apartment. Spend ten minutes on the house, the rest of it not about the house at all. The storm ate the evening.

Dante: Landed. Too late to come by. Tomorrow is wall to wall.

Levi: Go sleep. You need to look like a million bucks tomorrow. Or 20 million.

Thursday pays Wednesday’s bill. Every appointment the storm knocked down gets back up at once. The Birmingham couple, back for the three listings I promised them, still litigating the bunk room. Two listing calls I couldn’t push twice. The notary, who can take me at four or not at all this week.

I run the coast end to end and I’m still returning calls at nine from the apartment. It’s the kind of day I usually thrive in, and it doesn’t leave one minute standing.

Dante: Day never stopped. Eating pernil cold off the foil.

Levi’s reply takes two hours.